What Happened In Marrakech
by Jason Layton
Summary: When the 21 yr old Sherlock gets caught out of his depth in Morocco it has horrific results. OC from my Lucy/ Sherlock arc.
1. Chapter 1

**All property is theft!**

* * *

><p>I can't believe this is how I'm going to die, in this filthy rat invested hole, trapped and terrified. I'm too young to die I know nothing of anything, of the world, of the myriad seasons of life. My eyes dart around the room desperate to escape my fate, and they rest on him, my world, my only friend. He looks so unconcerned, so relaxed, but his grey eyes are black with anger and locked on the man holding me.<p>

I left University and the safety of England only a few months ago, fleeing with my friend from the murder charge that hung over his head. It had been mad and invigorating and I had loved every moment the freedom it had given me, he had given me. However this is where it is going to end, where my life is going to end, in the kitchen of a bar in Marrakech.

We had been following the man who is now holding me, for a couple of days. We know about his recreational chemistry, we are all recreational chemists in this room. I think he must be more scared of us, of my friend than I am of him. The smell of his rank sweat fills my nostrils, but doesn't block out the flat taste of stale cooking oil on my lips, or the overpowering fragrance of the rancid meat that lies all over this place.

They call this beast of a man Nicolai Guilote; it is a French pun on his favourite means of execution. This is of course how he is going to kill me, his huge right arm is wrapped around my neck, and his 12inch Victorinox Chef's Knife, which to my knowledge has taken 45 lives is pressed to my left jugular. His left arm is squeezed painfully around my ribs, and I am pressed into his massive chest, my thin body lifted easily off the floor. I think he will crush me to death, long before he takes my head from my shoulders.

I am blushing, my treacherous heart which normally beats so slowly is racing, my blood rushing to the place its most likely to spill from. His women the harpies who are currently standing behind my friend, laugh and point this out to him. He chuckles, whispering in my ear, asking if I'm enjoying this. They take my blushes for arousal that I might be turned on by the blatant erection pushing into my back. He shifts my body easily, rubbing himself against me. I want to be sick.

"Your friend is very pretty" Guilote tells my friend "I think she likes me, don't you think?"

I shift uncomfortably, trying to get away, but only succeed in bringing the knife closer into my fragile skin. I am pale and thin, I haven't eaten for so long, I haven't slept, and my body is rebelling against me. The money for this "case" would be worth my death to my friend. It would be worth anyone's death. We need this money, our flight; our on-going freedom needs this money. Bring down one cartel to the benefit of another, and the price is yours to ask.

Guilote has me as a final throw of the dice, what we asked of him was not excessive, go away, don't come back, and leave our client triumphant. However nobody gets as close to him as we have, and Guilote sees a simple solution to his problem, threaten me and the boy, my friend, will back off. He doesn't know my friend; he doesn't know how desperate we are for the money. I stifle a laugh when this thought runs through my head, if Guilote offered my friend enough money; we would have backed off anyway. We are mercenary, we are for hire, not cleaved to any person or idea, Guilote could have hired us and we would have run off like children looking for the next adventure, this isn't our fight.

I look into my friend's eyes, and I realise he is smiling; he either has a plan, or sees the ridiculous nature of the situation. I am a poor companion, I am not brilliant like him, and I think he would be better, leaner, and faster without me following him. I am always surprised he accepts my presence, for the last 3 years I have been his shadow, but for some reason I am tolerated unlike anyone else in his life. However when I look in those eyes, without his powers of deductive reasoning, I can't tell whether he wants Guilote to kill me or not. For a moment I am utterly terrified, but I know deep inside by the way my stomach is fluttering I am excited, and this is why I follow him.

The smell of the place and my situation is making me feel faint, and the blood in my ears is pounding and rushing. I seem to have been dangling in this man's arms for hours, although I know it to be seconds really. My friend is telling Guilote to let me go, but he receives a laugh in response, this stand-off in the heat of this rank kitchen is not what any of us expected, except possibly my friend. He's planned things like this before, where suddenly I find I am the sacrifice, left out of his plans, and fed to the lions. I look for clarification, but see only the darkness in my friend, the Harpies are chattering to him, telling him he will watch as I am beheaded and my body defiled. Then I see a reaction, small unnoticeable to strangers, but I know my friend and he is clenching his fists.

Whatever Guilote expects it is not this; my friend turns quickly opening the large double fridge behind the Harpies, braining them with the stainless steel doors. I have a moment to see what has happened, unbelieving the amount of blood, the shock in front of me before I feel a cold catch at my neck. The knife has hit home. There is a sharpness and then cold, but no real pain. I am dropped to the floor, and I hear rushed footsteps, and a gunshot. I think I am fine, that I have received a scratch from Guilote and nothing more. My eyes are swimming and I look up to reassure my friend, the laugh dies on my lips. He is not looking at the man he has just shot, but his dark shocked eyes are on me.

I put a shaking hand to my neck, hot and wet liquid is pooling at my neck. I bring my hand to my fuzzy eyes, they are wet with red, surely it can't be blood I'd be in pain if it was blood, I must have crashed into some tomato ketchup surely. I don't remember seeing any sauce, just raw meat, but still I don't seem to remember a lot. I feel ever so odd. My friend is there but his voice is coming as if I'm underwater he calls my name, but I find I can't answer him, all I can do is laugh, but I wonder why my laughter is bubbling, surely it shouldn't be bubbling?

I tell him I'm not well, my bladder is not my own, I am trying to vomit. Somehow everything is whirring around me, and then I am lifted, high off the floor. Maybe I have just died, am I going to heaven I wonder, the smell of the kitchen is receding, and I feel like I can feel the cooler air, throughout my body. Wherever I am it's soft and warm though and there is a soft warm thing at my neck, and pressure. I want to get away from the pressure, but when I fight, my friend shouts at me, and the pressure returns. I am swaying and my body is shaking, I feel like my friend and I are travelling together upwards. Maybe I am mistaken maybe we are both dead.

My friend's voice is sharp suddenly he is talking to someone, shouting in French. Then my sleeve is ripped from my shirt, and I want to protest I like this shirt, but I can't. I feel a pinch on the inside of my elbow, it's sharp and I try and bat it away, but I can't move my arms. I feel a burning running through me, and my body is slowing even more. I can't breathe, oh God I can't breathe, my eyes are shutting, but I can feel hundreds of little furry bodies pouring over me, squeaking and running. Oh God my neck, they'll get inside my neck, I'm going to die in the Ochre city, with mice inside my neck…

* * *

><p><strong>So yeah from my LucySherlock arc, I have mentioned in the past that she had her throat slit in a bar in Marrakech, so here is the story from her pov.**

**There will be another chapter at least.**

**Jas xx**


	2. Chapter 2

He'll drop her if I can shock him, he has been sampling is own wears, and I can see the pin prick pupils, and the beaded sweat on his forehead. This is a man on the edge, he may be threatening us with his party trick, but his instinct is to run. If I can cause a big enough distraction, he'll run away, and no one will get hurt. I may not be an angel, I may not have her goodness, but I don't see myself as a bad person. The idea of killing a man for money is abhorrent.

His lesbian bodyguards behind me are teasing me, they see no reason to get actively involved, they are stupid and they are high. They think they're master this Guilote will triumph, the call me a brat, a child, they are calling her a snivelling mouse. They mock her for her maidenly blushes, but I see more than them. Her heart is racing; I can see the external jugular vein where the knife is pressed, its rhythm matching her ragged breathing. I also see the quirk in muscles of her cheeks; she is trying not to laugh. I hope she trusts me, because at this moment she needs too.

A fortnight ago we were in a house fire, her long hair had been ruined and the clothes and belongings we had, such as they were, have been lost. I went and had my hair shaved by a slimy barber who liked me, I didn't like my head shaved, but it was necessary. She had attacked her own hair with the scissors from her penknife, her messy short hair and lambs shorn neck made a perfect target with which Guilote can threaten me.

The clothes we are wearing are stolen, everything we have is stolen, the gun in the inside pocket of my coat is stolen. The only thing we have that is ours is the coat I am wearing and the two mahogany boxes in the bag at my feet. The dress she is wearing is too big for her, and the stolen boots on her feet flap as she kicks her legs, when I get her out of here, which I will, and I claim the money for this case, I think I will buy her clothes, I promised myself I would keep her safe, my guilt keeps me with her, and our life has not been easy of late.

Guilote is a foolish beast of a man, but his goods are clean, the kitchen where he makes his legitimate living may be rank but his chemists are experts. We have seen his goods throughout the city, and as I look around this kitchen I spot something. The opiates, the heroin and morphine he's been flooding the market with needs to be kept refrigerated. Everything in this kitchen is filthy, the floor is covered with slime and blood, the oil in the fryers hasn't been changed in months, but the fridge behind me, the sold stainless steel commercial fridge is spotless. Its heavy it's reinforced and the women behind me are standing at just the right angle, that I could do them some serious damage with the door.

I turn as fast as I can, it feels so slow, but I am assured it's not, I see the confusion in the women's eyes as I reach for the handle of the door, then they are blocked out by the door, and there is a thud. It's loud to loud, they must really have been stoned, and the crunch that follows tells me I've broken at least one of their skulls, probably both. I don't stop and keep turning, I see the shock in Guilote's eyes and the horror in her's. I also see his panic and the knife raking her neck. Bright red blood spurts from her throat, and I must be shocked because she is dropped to the floor, and I am still staring as Guilote runs towards me. Still with my eyes on her I take the gun from my coat and shoot him, it's a clean shot through the heart and as he drops I'm already at her side. I call her name, but she can't hear me, she is looking at her blood as if she'd never seen anything like it, and I know she's going to die.

He could have taken her head clean off, the knife was sharp and frankly well used. However he didn't, this was a mistake, a panicky mistake. I look again at the wound as she starts trying to laugh, but chokes instead. There is a bright slice from an inch below her ear, running across the front of her neck. There is so much blood, but I look carefully, she would be dead if he'd sliced the jugular, at worse he has just nicked it. I pick her up, she is so thin and light and frail it's easy I want to leave this place, up the stairs and to the street, but I look at the fridge. There are rows and rows of little brown glass bottles, and a box of 100ml syringes. I pocket the gun and grab a handful of the vials and syringes, roughly pushing them in the pocket above the gun.

I carry her easily up the stairs; her blood soaking into my coat, on the street there is a man climbing into an old vegetable truck. The back doors are open and I shove her inside, on the sacks of vegetables, I shout at the man in French to take me to the hospital, I shout my friend is sick. When he shrugs, I pull the gun from my pocket and wave it, spilling the vials over her in the back of the van. I climb in the back, and slam the door. I ignore the driver as we pull off; if he has sense he will take us to a hospital rather than having to explain the corpse in his van.

I pull her to me as close as I can, using the rough woollen arm of my coat to try and stem the bleeding. She is fighting me, which I think must be good, who the hell knows, but she's still alive and fighting. I think I must keep her alive; I owe it to her to keep her alive, after what has happened I shouldn't be responsible for her death. I grab her arm, this journey is taking too long, and there is so much blood. How can I stop the blood? I think I know, I'm not unwilling to admit this isn't my strong point, but the chemistry, the chemistry should be. I rip the sleeve from the awful dress. This is something I've tried on myself a few times, but she has no tolerance, I need to stop her bleeding, stop her heart.

I tie the sleeve trying to bring up a vein; her elbow shows her bright blue vein, aristocratic blue blood, I laugh at this. 0.6ml/ 60mg syringe I put it together, hampered by the movement of the van, and the quivering girl. I draw up the full dose, it's an opiate, either heroin or morphine but it shouldn't matter. I'm inexpert but not worried about air bubbles as I should be, she's taking in air straight into her blood stream with every breath anyway. I feel her tense against me, and then she starts shaking and murmuring. Mice, she's talking about mice, I look at her as she pales further and goes limp. Her heart has stopped, and she's stopped breathing.

I seem to sit in the van with the cold girl, for an hour, it must be no more than a minute, but I laugh. I'm 21 and I have just killed 4 people in less than 5 minutes. How strange my life has become, my shaved head and stolen clothes I wonder briefly whether my brother recognise me. I could call him from the hospital, I hate him, I hate my family it would be embarrassing and my pride wouldn't allow it, but I know for a moment I could. I could call him from the hospital and beg for help, if they could bring her back we could return home and hope our families could cover for the crime we are running from. If they can bring her back, I don't doubt myself, I can never allow myself to doubt, but this is taking so long, too long. If they can't get her back, I may submit myself too him anyway, what would be the point of running if she was dead.

The driver stops sharply, and I kick open the back door. Picking her up again, I see we are outside the Ibn Tofail (جامعة ابن طفيل) University Hospital, I hurry towards the modern open doors and shout in a mixture of French and broken Arabic for help. Many feet are running towards me, and I gratefully hand her over to some porters with a stretcher. As she is wheeled away, a woman comes up and asks me for details in her odd French. They think I'm French, oh that's interesting, and oh that's good. I can cope with French, which story would work best, married couple lost, no the mahogany boxes that make that lie, which work for that lie are in my bag, she has no ring and I'm not a grieving husband. Friend's doesn't keep me that close, neither does lovers, brother and sister then. She's my sister, twins would that work, it worked in Havana. I tell her all this, that we are twins that we are lost, she was attacked in a bar and I found her like this, she was talking in the van. Fake tears fall, and the woman hurries off, she leaves me to my grief and fear. I ask to use the phone as she leaves, and she points to the girl on the desk. The girl at the desk, smiles at me, sympathetically and passes me the phone. I look at the number and then I stop, who am I going to phone? I could phone Mycroft, I could go home to safety and leave this place without a look behind me, I could go back to University I could work for Mycroft my life would be safe and boring, or I could phone our client I could collect our reward and continue onwards. I turn to see a man covered in blood who looks grave; walking towards me I add a shake to my hand and look quizzically. Then I see it, a slight raise in his lips, nothing much, but he raises his hand to me and I know that gesture. I turn back to the phone with a smile on my face, now I know who to dial.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to MyriadProBold for the review<strong>

**As promised section 2, lol.**

**Hope you enjoy**

**Jas xx**


End file.
